“Sacrilegious, that’s what it is.”
They cinched their buttocks tightly, expecting a reprisal and when there was none said simply in unison-
“What?”
“I said Sacrilegious. To think you boys would match those cheap Tiger Store shirts with splendid black dress trousers- such as those!”
The Mormon Boys looked briefly at each other, then turned back to me-
“God doesn’t care how we clothe our earthly bodies, sir.”
“Oh, but she does. For Heaven’s sake you wouldn’t for a moment consider showing up at St. Pete’s Gate looking like a couple of frumpy, Catholic School Girls- would you? And don’t call me sir- boys!”
“These are not our clothes!”- chimed the blonde one, “They are the uniforms of God’s Army.”
“Please Darling, even God wouldn’t force you to wear…”
A sudden gasp!
“Is that a pair of white socks under those pant legs?”
“No. They’re beige! Honestly. ”- says the dark one.
“Ugh! Much worse. What in the name of Jesus Cripes do they teach you at your tabernacle- 50 ways to break the laws of fashion.”
“ Sir…I mean to say Mr....ummm- what is your name?”
“Just call me "Sir". You were about to say?”
“I don’t believe I can call you ‘Sir’-sir, without some sense of feeling that it is morally wrong and against the church’s teachings.”
“Oh Mr. Sir!”- they cry giving each other a surprised look as if they were caught off guard-
“We would never wear black cocktail dresses. Jesus wouldn’t be pleased.”
I frown and look each of the pretty boys square in the eye- one at a time.
“Boys, just what in the name of Tom Cruises’ Church of Scientology do you think the Lord wore while flibbity-gibbing around Galilee?”
The boys stand there on the verandah clutching their bags with their Mormon Mouths wide open.
“That’s right kids”- I continued, hands firmly planted on hips, “He wore a Goshdarned dress. A Cotton shift. 100% natural beige- a little rough in the nether regions, cut low at the neck to show a hint of pectorals then “free form” from tits to toes.”
“Now, wait a second….Sir…”- says the blonde, pretty one, “Our beloved Christ did not wear a dress with a scooped neckline.”
Taken aback I said- “You! You just said the words “scooped neckline”. Now just how does a pretty little Mormon boy… Hmmmmm, let me see your hands.”
He shows them to me.
“A pretty little Mormon Boy with “girly” hands knows all about scooped necklines? If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re both…”
“So what? I know a few fashionata terms.”- says the blonde lad.
“Yes.” –says the dark one, “So what if she…I mean HE knows a few terms that only a certified dressmaker would use.”
I gasped!
“Holy Mary Magdeline!”
“Look,” says the dark-haired lad, “Please do not spake the name of the whore of Galilee. It is unclean and lacks the milk of human kindness.”
“I see. Mary M’s a whore but peddling your little ivory tushes door to door is just fine. Someone here is prostituting and it’s not Mary. Besides the Catholics "de-whored" Mare a couple of years ago. She’s pure as the driven snow. Now she can turn the world on with her smile! ”
“Oh Honey”- says blondy-lou and sheepishly adds “I mean, Sir, we don’t believe in the Roman Catholic Church.”
“Or homosexuals!”- adds the darker one.
“How convenient. Pray it doesn’t exist and it doesn’t. So let me play ‘devils advocate’ here.”
“Now you’re talking!”- says blondey-lou, his face beaming, “The Devil. Satan.”- He rubs his hands together and punches the dark one in his bag as a sort of “manly” stamp of approval. The dark one flings his bag over an athletic right shoulder.
Blondey-lou’s absolutely beaming and says- “Now we can fight the demon that’s caught you up inside.”
“Demon!!”- I screamed. “Haven’t you boys learned anything? The demon is your total lack of faith towards fashion dos and don’t. Like getting rid of the freeking beige socks and go "black" young man. The Lord at least had the fashion sense to wear simple barefoot sandals with his frock but you with the beige sock thing."
The boys appeared lost for words. This time the dark one punched the blonde one in his sack.
“Good grief Mr. Sir, would you be happy if I removed my socks and went barefoot?”
I thought for a brief moment.
“Yes. Yes, of course. It would be a start.”
The lad removes his socks and stands there brazen and buff with bare, athletic looking feet on my verandah.
“There. Now can we talk about Jesus, our lord?”
“Oh Dear Boy…”
I look to the other-
“I’m sorry- boys…I would love to chat more but I have a cake in the oven and it’s about time I set it out to cool. Now run along, be good Mormon boys and bother someone else.”
The boys seemed sadly rejected. They re-adjusted their bags and with half smiles on virginal faces, they headed down the steps and along the path to the sidewalk.
Briefly they turned and looking back to the verandah from whence they came asked-
“Can we come again tomorrow, Sir?”.
It was “blondey-lou” who asked first.
“Of course, Dear Boys. Come as many times as you like!”
“Wow. Thanks! See ya.”- adds the dark one.
They smiled and merrily pranced off down the sidewalk clutching their bags in one hand and their Mormon literature in the other.
I had to chuckle as I waved goodbye.
